


the only shot worth taking (is one at you)

by inexplicablewhales



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bar, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Drunk Foggy Nelson, Fluff and Humor, Foggy Needs Better Coping Mechanisms, Light Angst, M/M, Matt Being Adorable, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Mild Language, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-11 04:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicablewhales/pseuds/inexplicablewhales
Summary: “Don’t suppose you’re into Matt, then?” she quips with a half- smirk, completely unaware that she’s hit the nail on the head.He tries to smile and pulls at his already-loosened tie. It’s suddenly too hot in the bar. Must be those crazy weather swings they’ve been having recently. Global warming and all that. Definitely.In which Foggy pines (often drunkenly), Matt is adorably concerned, and Marci and Karen deserve medals. Also, a lot of baked goods and an unsubtle cameo.





	the only shot worth taking (is one at you)

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime mid-to-late Season 1 of Daredevil. Let's do me a favor and pretend all my references are up-to-date: it's been a while since I watched Season 1, Season 2 was way too dark for me to really enjoy it, so I've all but wiped it from my memory, and I haven't watched The Defenders.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos for me if you liked it. It makes my day and I'd love to hear anything you have to say. Thanks for reading!

Franklin Percy “Foggy” Nelson is a good man- or at least, he tries to be. He helps old ladies cross the street, donates regularly to the Thurgood Marshall College Fund, calls his mother regularly, and babysits his neighbor Tara’s nine-year-old twins when she’s working the night shift at one of her three jobs; not to mention the stash of cans of Purina Beyond Wild™ Prey-Inspired™ Turkey, Liver & Arctic Quail Recipe he stocks in his pantry for the stray cat who shows up at his doorstep every few days.

So: he has no idea what the hell he could have possibly done to deserve the hideous torture of getting interrogated by his ex-girlfriend/friend-with-benefits about the potential girlfriend of his best friend, who he happens to be hopelessly in love with. He’s way past the nightmare realm that was high school; he doesn’t deserve this relationship web drama that honestly wouldn’t be out of place in one of the telenovelas Mrs. Cardenas has on in the background whenever he visits.

“Karen is the petite, cute blonde, right? The one that wields a can of Mace like nobody’s business?” Marci says, pulling him out of the mini mental pity party he’s throwing himself. She’s scrutinizing him entirely too closely for comfort.

“Yeah,” Foggy replies, attempting to shrug in a nonchalant way. Karen’s great. She’s smart and kind and brave and no-nonsense and really, _really_ deserves a raise. He likes her – he just doesn’t like the way his stomach turns every time she and Matt smile at each other.

Marci narrows her eyes, and it’s clear she’s seeing more in his expression than he wants her to, even in the low lighting of the bar they’re sitting in. “Wait. I don’t think this is really about Karen.”

Foggy’s head jerks up. Shit. He’s forgotten how fast she is. “What do you mean?” he says, hoping to whatever God is listening that his voice doesn’t crack.

Marci isn’t stupid, that’s the thing. Never was, never will be, and when she’s onto something, it’s like a shark trailing the scent of blood.

“No. This definitely isn’t about Karen. At least, not completely. Is it something else entirely? Is it Matt?” she asks curiously.

Foggy can’t help his involuntary wince. Marci zeroes in. Target locked.

“Is it something related to the practice? Hmm, probably not, you wouldn’t look like a deer caught in headlights if it was…” she muses thoughtfully. “It involves Karen, though, I think. And Matt. There was some chemistry there. Are they dating?” He feels a stab of raw, unadulterated pain.

She peers at him, and he hastily tries for a poker face. Doesn’t work. “That bothers you. A lot, actually. Why? Are you into Karen?” Further examination of his rigid stance seems to tell her she’s wrong. “Don’t suppose you’re into Matt, then?” she quips with a half- smirk, unaware that she’s hit the nail on the head.

He tries to smile and pulls at his already-loosened tie. It’s suddenly too hot in the bar. Must be those crazy weather swings they’ve been having recently. Global warming and all that. Definitely.

“Oh my god,” she says, shocked realization dawning on her face. It evolves into a kind of visceral glee. “Wait. I can’t believe I was right. That’s what this is.”

She’s going to go for the jugular. He wishes a random Chitauri portal would open up in the middle of the floor right about now. Yeah, he’d get eaten by alien monsters, but at least he’d be saved from this hell.

“You like Matt,” Marci states incredulously. No luck on the Chitauri front, then.

“Well, yeah, Marci, we wouldn’t be friends otherwise,” tries Foggy feebly, knowing even as he says it that he’s not fooling anyone. He eyes the door speculatively- it’s about 15 feet away, if he sprints, he can make it out before Marci stops him, maybe the element of surprise will hold her off-

She tilts her head, reassesses a little. “Wow. It’s worse, isn’t it? You’re in _love_ with Matt.”

Foggy swallows, looks at the table, and tries to quell the enormous, involuntary surge of panic. He nods minutely.  

Now that she has the truth, Marci seems to deflate a little, like she was expecting him to make this a little harder for her.

“How long?” she asks, as gently as The Meat Grinder in the Pencil Skirt herself can. Sometimes he feels a little guilty for giving her that nickname, but it's times like this that he remembers why he came up with it in the first place.

“Ugh, Marci,” he groans.

“How _long_ ,” she says again. The gentleness is gone.

“Since he walked into our dorm at Columbia and stuck out his hand to shake,” mutters Foggy.

“Then what did you hook up with me for?” she asks. She doesn’t seem hurt, just inquisitive.

“A distraction. There were a few girls I tried to distract myself with, especially when Matt was dating someone or bringing them back to the dorm. It sort of worked. But when it was over, I didn’t feel any better.” The words are just spilling out of their own accord at this point. “I always went back to Matt. I guess in my heart I knew I wasn’t going to get over him. It’s been so many years. I…I don’t think I ever will,” he admits, soft, confessional.

“So,” she prompts, “what’re you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. I’ll let him be. He and Karen are cute together. They look happy.” He can’t stop the slightly bitter tinge that seeps into his voice. He drains the rest of the beer he’s been nursing.

Marci opens her mouth, pauses, and closes it. She pats him on the back. They sit together in silence for a minute or two.

Of course, Marci’s the one to break it. “Enough with the sympathy,” she says. “Shall we get smashed?"

“Oh my god, that’s the best idea you’ve had since we got here,” Foggy says with fervent gratitude.

Marci heads over to the counter, and Foggy drops his head into his hands. He’s so screwed.

Stupid Matt, with his stupidly handsome face and those chocolatey brown doe eyes that succeed in guilt-tripping him every goddamn time. The earnest, serious way he’d told Foggy he was his best friend, and the wry blind jokes he makes in that deadpan way he has, and the way he looks when he’s arguing a case in court- God. Foggy doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 _It’s not fair_ , Foggy thinks, but shakes his head and chides himself for it. Matt and Karen _do_ look happy together, and that’s all Foggy really wants, anyway, for Matt to give up his whole perpetual Catholic guilt shtick and stop denying himself happiness- and for him to stop being the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, of course. But he figures he has a much better chance with the guilt thing.  

The question remains- if Matt is happy, and that’s what Foggy cares about, why does his heart feel like it’s been impaled by one of Marci’s killer-sharp stilettos, shot through a fucking wood chipper, and scattered into the air, never to knit back together again?

“Because you’re literally so in love it’s sickening, you idiot,” his brain pipes up.

Wait, that’s not his brain. It’s Marci, back with an immense amount of tequila and vodka, and he realizes he must have said that last part out loud.

“You know, I’ve actually been really slow on the uptake about this,” she says thoughtfully. “I should’ve seen it sooner. Maybe I just thought you were weirdly comfortable with him, but I just chalked it up to your brand of crazy matching his brand of crazy. Plus, I didn’t think you were gay, so it’s understandable.”

“I’m not,” Foggy says immediately. Marci squints at him. “You know you’re in love with a guy, right?”

“I’m bi,” Foggy retorts.

“I’m kidding,” says Marci. “I know you liked what we were doing together too much to be a hundred percent gay.” She smirks.

Foggy rolls his eyes, grabs two vodka shots, and downs them one after the other.

Marci’s perfect eyebrows lift in surprise. “The vodka was for me, Foggy Bear.”

Foggy shakes his head a little. “Really?” he says, stumbling a bit over the word.

“Oh, you lightweight,” Marci sighs. “Maybe getting smashed should wait. You have work tomorrow, right?” she says reluctantly. “Let’s get you home.”

“No,” Foggy says, liquid courage bolstering his confidence. “I have somewhere else I need to be!” He trips on a barstool, and Marci catches him.

“I can’t let you go to Matt’s. You can’t just throw yourself at him, you know,” she admonishes him, but looks amused. Foggy knows this is halfhearted- she doesn’t really mean it, and would gladly accompany him, if only to watch him make a fool of himself and get it on camera.

This brief flash of lucidity vanishes when he turns back to the tequila shots. Two more, down the hatch.

The small amount of responsibility Marci was apparently feeling earlier is gone. “Whatever. Let’s do this!” she cheers, and pounds two vodkas back herself.

“ _Yea_ _h_!” he yells, picking up another shot. “ _F_ _uck you, Matt_!”

“I’m sure that’s the goal,” Marci says, right as they clink glasses. Foggy nearly drops his drink and Marci smiles crookedly into her vodka.

\--

The drinking is a blur. Marci shamelessly hits on every guy in a five-foot radius, many of who look awestruck that Marci is deigning to bestow a shred of her attention upon them. Foggy beats a member of the Irish mafia at darts, earning his grudging respect and, because he turns out to be surprisingly high in the ranks, a promise to stop sending ominous threat mail to the office, and they buy two more rounds for the bar.

It’s no surprise at all when he finds himself utterly plastered. So is Marci, judging by the way she’s giggling at everything and using him as an armrest.

“Marci,” Foggy says determinedly, and hiccups. “We need to visit Matt.”

“Nah,” says Marci between giggles. “I have to go. My main squeeze is waiting for me.”

Foggy squints at her. “Who’s the unlucky guy?”

“His name’s Brett… he’s _police_ ,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“ _I_ know a Brett who’s police too!” Foggy whispers back. It’s a small world, after all. Like that one Disney ride with the ethnically diverse animatronics says. Those dolls were kind of terrifying, now that he stops to think about it. He frowns a little. “What’s this Brett’s last name?”

Marci’s not listening – she’s done another shot when he wasn’t looking, and it doesn’t look like he’s getting an answer.

Foggy nods sagely. “Go home to your _boyfriend_ ,” he says, voice rising. “At least you _have one_.”

Marci tries to pat his head and accidentally pats two of the shot glasses she’s put on the counter, which tip over and shatter on the floor. “Whoops!” Marci giggles again.

The bartender- Leo? Laurence? L-something, he knows it – levels them with an even look. “I think she may have had one too many. So have you. I’m going to have to ask you to leave and call a cab.”

Foggy huffs dramatically. Stupid Leroy or whatever his name is just doesn’t understand the single struggle. And why would he? The man’s chiseled as hell with his smooth brown skin, not to mention the fact that he’s built like a brick shithouse. Foggy’s openly ogling the way his muscles flex under his shirt as he folds his arms. And that jawline could cut glass. _But,_ his brain can’t help pointing out,  _still not as attractive as Matt._

He groans. “Fiiine,” he says, pouting. They stumble out of the bar. Marci had insisted on anywhere but Josie’s, and Foggy had been fully on board- if they’d seen Matt with Karen there, he doesn’t think he would have been able to handle it.

Foggy hails a cab, and shoves Marci in. “Here,” he says to the driver, and hands him two dollars.

The cab driver just looks at him flatly.

Foggy reaches for his wallet and pulls out a random bill. The driver’s eyes go wide.

“Keep the change,” Foggy says, waving him off. He feels generous tonight. Also dizzy.

The cab speeds off into the chilly night air, and Foggy starts trudging his way to Matt’s apartment, completely and totally hammered.

He’s really feeling it now. Confident-but-slurring Foggy has emerged. He has to do this before crying-in-a-corner Foggy makes his appearance.

He knows the way by heart, and reaches it just fine, and if he falls a few times on the stairs because he can’t see which step is where, that’s his business.

“Matt? _Matt_!” he shouts, and hiccups. He bangs on the door. Oh. Matt probably won’t be there, vigilante duties and all. He didn’t think this through. He sinks to the floor. What if it’s not Devil stuff? What if it’s Karen? His traitor brain floats the possibility that Karen is over and he’ll have to see them fresh out of bed. He feels sick in a way that has nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol he’s just consumed.

Just then, he falls backward and smacks his head on dark wood.

“Foggy?” a groggy voice says above him. “Buddy, what are you doing here?” The voice now sounds much more awake. Foggy looks up, and his heart does a little flip in his chest. Matt’s wearing a soft-looking thin white t-shirt, and the black pajama pants printed with little red devil horns Foggy got him for his birthday as a joke, and Foggy falls in love all over again.

“ 'M here for you, Mmmatty.” Damn. Stupid slurring.

“What time is it? Are you… you’re drunk, aren’t you.”

“So drunk,” Foggy mumbles mournfully.

“Come in, I’ll let you take the bed,” Matt says, and pulls him to his feet easily.

“No,” says Foggy petulantly, the vodka/tequila-induced bravado powering him.

Matt takes him by the arm- such a strong grip, it takes all the willpower Foggy has left in his foggy brain (haha, Foggy, foggy, he’s so clever) to not think about what that grip could do in the bedroom- and drags him in.

“I have to tell you something,” Foggy mumbles, so low that even Matt, with his super-hearing, doesn’t seem to have heard it. Maybe he’s tired. More likely, his stupid tongue isn’t cooperating enough for it to be intelligible.

Matt looks concerned. “Foggy,” he says, gently, and oh, Foggy wants to _melt_ at the tone he’s using, but he has to say what he’s here to say. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to say something,” Foggy declares.

Matt waits expectantly.

“H-how’s Karen?” Foggy blurts, suddenly nervous. Ugh. Stupid, stupid, he doesn’t want to know, what if Matt thinks she’s the _one_ -

Matt looks skeptical, but bless his saintly soul, goes with it. “She’s great…I mean, you saw her today, didn’t you? We went to that Indian restaurant- you know, the one you introduced me to when we were starting our firm- and we chatted for a little while. Why?”

“That’sss good,” Foggy slurs. Oh, great. His eyes are welling up. He swipes at them furiously and sniffles a little. Crying-in-a-corner Foggy has arrived in dramatic fashion.

“Foggy? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Matt sounds panicked.

“I’m happy for you?” Foggy tries.

It’s not his night.

Matt’s eyebrows furrow. “Why, what brought this on? And I don’t need enhanced hearing to know something’s up. You’re lying, Fog. Why? Why to me?”

The tears won’t stop, and Foggy hates it.

“I can’t tell you,” he sniffles. “You won’t want to be friends with me anymore.”

Matt’s expression shifts into something open, vulnerable. “Foggy,” he says softly but intensely. “There is _nothing_ you could tell me that would make me not want to be friends with you anymore. Avocados forever, remember? And you know about-“ he swallows a little- “the Devil thing, and you still stuck by my side. You’re my best friend. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Foggy throws his arms around Matt. “You’re such a good friend,” he sobs into Matt’s distressingly well-muscled chest.

Matt hesitates, then wraps his arms firmly around him and rubs Foggy’s back in slow, soothing circles. It’s honestly really nice, and Foggy catches himself full-on snuggling Matt a few minutes in.

Matt takes a hand off Foggy to feel around for the clock on the end table behind him. He slaps a button, and the pleasant genderless voice says, “It is currently two forty-five AM.”

“It’s really late, buddy,” Matt says, and that’s all the warning he gets before being scooped up, bridal-style, and carried to Matt’s bed. Foggy feels his cheeks flame. The alcohol. It’s the alcohol flush. Yep.

Matt sets him down with care, walks over to the closet, and starts rummaging around.

“Matthew,” Foggy says experimentally. “Matthew Michael Murdock. Isn’t it funny how all your initials are the same? What’s it called? The…the…thing on bathrobes…oh! Your monogram would say M-M-M. Mmm. Delicious.” He grins. He should do stand-up sometime. Missed his calling.

Matt’s grinning as he emerges with an old Columbia t-shirt and a pair of gray sweats.

“Delicious, huh?” he says with a teasing, disarming smile that steals Foggy’s breath away. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“You should hear it all the time,” Foggy insists. “You're damn fine and you’re sweet and you’re sooooo brave and I wish you wouldn’t be so guilty all the time because you…you deserve to be _happy_ ,” he says. He knows he’s rambling, but he’s on a roll. Unstoppable. _Mission: Unstoppable,_ starring Tom Booze. Heh. He giggles, but shushes himself sternly. No. Must be serious.

Matt looks touched and incredibly amused at the same time.

“You deserve, like, allllll the tequila, Matt. And also those banana hazelnut muffins Gran makes. And-and somebody who makes you smile.”

Matt tilts his head, bemused. “Where is this going, Fog?”

Foggy hitches his shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Karen. Go for it, I won’t-“ He looks down and takes a deep breath. “I won’t get in the way,” he says, and has to count to fifteen and stare hard at the lightbulb to will the tears away again.

“Foggy,” Matt says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “What’s this deal with Karen? Why’d you ask about her twice tonight? There’s something, obviously. Did she say something? What happened? What’s up? You know you can tell me anything.”

Foggy tries to roll his eyes, but just kind of ends up looking sideways. “It’s _not_ Karen,” he says hotly, and a little too loudly, judging by the way Matt winces. “I’m in love with _you_ , not _Karen_ , you dumbass!” There. Done. He feels triumphant for a brief moment before _WHAT DID YOU JUST DO_ rings out in his brain with surprising clarity and starts echoing all around.

Matt’s face is priceless- he looks comically shocked, his mouth half-open in surprise. Then he closes it slowly, looking like he wants to say something else.

Foggy feels like trash. He’s so tired and so drained and so, so dizzy. He honestly doesn’t have it in him to be rejected right now. He turns over wordlessly and puts the pillow over his head.

It’s a long moment before he feels Matt get off the edge of the bed and hears him quietly pad into the hall. The door gently clicks shut. Foggy hates his life.

\--

Foggy wakes up that morning feeling like a tiny Thor is smashing his skull in with Mjolnir. He groans with feeling, rolls over, and does a double-take. Holy fuck. It's 1:45 PM. On a weekday. He's so late, he's so late, he has to scope out like four new clients because the bills aren't getting paid and they're super desperate for cash- oh thank god, aspirin. It's only after he gulps down the pill and the water that he finally looks around the room.

Wait. Fuck. His sheets aren't nearly this nice, and the walls look different, too. Where is he exactly?

And then it comes rushing back to Foggy all at once, and he seriously craves death. Why him, of all people? What kind of cosmically unfair shit is the universe trying to pull here?

As if the humiliation of confessing his secret gay crush on his best friend TO his best friend isn't enough, Matt has been so typically Matt that he's literally left Foggy in bed to recuperate, with water, aspirin, and a little note that just says "No worries, Fog, I'll cover you for today. Rest up. You need it." Oh, he's signed it at the bottom, too, like anyone else would have given Foggy pajamas and adjusted the pillows just the way he likes them and not breathed a single word that even indicated unease with Foggy, despite his ridiculous, impulsive move last night.

He burrows further into the blankets, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head. He doesn't want to deal with the repercussions of being a drunk dumbass right now.

\--

Foggy eventually leaves at around 4, before Matt can come home. He'll just studiously avoid any personal conversation, keep it professional for a little while, it'll be fine, Matt'll forget all about it or at least get the hint that Foggy really, really does not want to have this talk. Foolproof.

Except it isn't. It's way harder to do this than Foggy ever thought it would be. Foggy walks into the firm the next morning carrying three coffees and a batch of assorted doughnuts, says "Guess who's back, back again," in his best Eminem voice (which is actually kind of awful), and offers Karen a smile as he hands her the coffee and puts the doughnuts on the coffee table.

Matt looks at him a little quizzically, but smiles all the same when Foggy silently proffers him his favorites, a powdered jelly and a Boston Crème. “My favorite,” he says, and for a split second, Foggy thinks he might be talking about more than the doughnuts, but he doesn’t want to lead himself down that path, so he squashes the tenuous hope rising in his chest, tightening his throat, pervading his head. He blinks rapidly.

“Foggy,” Matt starts lowly, “we need to talk-“

“Oh, sure, let’s talk,” Foggy says too fast and falsely bright, “I’ve got some interesting information that could be useful to Ben, I was doing some research on Fisk and his contacts, and I think I found a connection to his past that we could use.”

Foggy determinedly ignores the pained expression on Matt’s face, pulls his laptop out of his bag and starts typing. “Foggy, you know that’s not what I wanted to discuss- “Matt tries.

“Here, let me show you,” Foggy says, plowing ahead, and Matt schools his expression a bit and peers over his shoulder to take a look. Good. Work Foggy can deal with. _Keep it professional, Nelson_. _Get yourself the fuck together, you’re falling apart like a goddamn granola bar._ He groans internally. That was bad, even for him. Ugh, love, utterly ruining the quality of his analogies.

\--

Foggy brushes past him in the dingy, dimly lit corner that passes for their break room. He whistles “Pokerface” off-key and very loudly, grabs one of the oranges sitting on the table, and refills his water bottle with the jug they keep. Matt clearly wants to say something, but sighs a little, and doesn’t pursue it further, although he has his guilt-face on, aaaand _nope_ , Foggy’s really not about to do this to himself. He strides away hurriedly.

\--

“So, Foggy-“

“Is it about Mrs. Cardenas, Matt? 'Cause I got it already. Oh, and I’m sending you a shit-ton of folders, and some big audio files are in there, so be prepared for that.”

“… okay.”

\--

He takes off his headphones, which are emitting the last strains of Amy Winehouse’s rendition of “To Know Him is To Love Him” (it’s just been that kind of day. Hopefully these headphones don’t leak sound) and stands up to stretch a bit. He can faintly hear Karen’s voice. He wanders over to see what’s up and stops dead in his tracks. Matt and Karen are talking lowly over behind one of the walls.

“- how do you think he feels?” That’s Karen.

“Clearly upset, I never meant for this to happen. He’s my best _friend_ , Karen, I just want us to go back to normal-” and that’s all Foggy needs to hear from Matt’s anguished tone.

He shakes his head, resolutely walks back to his spot, and puts the headphones back in.

\--

The research is absorbing. He feels good about the progress he’s making, and the difficulty and repetition of searching, documenting, and cataloging evidence is almost soothing, in their own way. He also hasn’t gotten up in four hours, though, so he walks to the door and back just to give his legs a break.

He’s walking back when Matt catches him by the arm and says “Foggy, _please_.”

Fifteen minutes later, the “Do Not Disturb” sign goes up, with thick block letters and an underline imprint so deep it’s torn the paper.

\--

Karen finds him almost nodding off in spite of (or maybe it’s a crash because of) his third Black Death, his trademark straight black coffee-Red Bull mix.

“What are you doing,” she says flatly, but he senses genuine concern. “Did you even sleep last night?”

Foggy doesn’t reply, which is all the confirmation she needs.

She sighs, moves a file out of the way, and perches on the edge of his desk.

“You need to talk to Matt,” she says, and he’s about to turn away, but she takes his hand. “I think it would be really, _really_ helpful for both of you.  Also, you’ve been driving me up a wall and I really had to step in because I like when you buy me lunch. Oh, and of course, there’s the fact that I didn’t want to see you guys sabotage your own work.”

Foggy wavers, and then crumbles. It’s been harder than he wants to admit to give Matt the cold shoulder. He exhales slowly. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“More or less,” she says with a shrug. “Said you showed up completely drunk at his apartment and said some stuff that you now think is really awkward and terrible so you’re avoiding him. I think this is really stupid, for the record. You’re not the first person to say something they didn’t mean while they were drunk, and I’m sure that with how long you guys have known each other, he’s seen you drunk enough times to know that.”

Foggy groans. “Thanks, Karen, but I know what I said. You don’t. It would ruin things to acknowledge the elephant in the room.”

She rolls her eyes. “Great, Matt left out a vital piece of context, what a surprise. Is it really that bad?”

He lifts a shoulder and tilts his hand around a little to indicate _yes, sort of, and at the very least it changes things._

“Tell me then. You know you can trust me, right? I can try and help, or at least lend a listening ear.” Karen looks at him, her pale eyes so sincere and kind that Foggy gives in and tells her all, starting with the first time they’d met, and he’d thought he was in the wrong room, because there was no way the universe had given him the blessing of a hot-as-fuck roommate with a heart-melting smile and a beautiful voice. He spares no detail, either, from the strings of meaningless hookups he’d tried to the countless twilight hours he’d spent staring desolately at the sky from his balcony, and finally, tells her the sequence of events that led up to his confession. When he’s finished, neither of them is dry-eyed.

“Also,” he says, his voice ragged, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make things awkward between us because you’re dating him. You’re awesome and kickass and the best secretary ever and we honestly need to put your name on the front of the firm too. I promise I’ll get over this even though I’m a mess right now.”

She does a double-take, and he can see the gears whirring. It clicks into place and her face clears. “Oh, Foggy,” she says. “Foggy, you stupid, adorable man.” She pulls him into a hug and laughs wetly. “We didn’t go on a date. We met up, talked a bit, but I wanted to talk to him about Claire, actually. I…I wanted her number and I wanted to know a bit more about her. I think she’s really great,” she says and blushes pink to the tips of her ears.

“Oh,” he says, a beat late. “Oh. Wow. I _really_ misread the whole situation, didn’t I.”

She giggles. “Yeah. We’ve both got gay crushes. But hey, you have my blessing. No worries, Foggy. And even if it had been a date, it would only have been one date, and I still would have conceded to you. Plus, hey, there’s plenty of other people in the dating pool.” She grins. “To quote the great Eminem, ‘No matter how many fish in the sea, it’d feel so empty without me.’ ”

Foggy feels so blessed that Karen is Karen, and never ceases to amaze him. He smiles, suddenly struck with the hilarity of it all. “I guess you could say you’re a real _catch_ , then, couldn’t you?”

They burst into laughter, and Foggy feels like an enormous weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

\--

Foggy’s a stress-cleaner, so he's dusting his blinds and blaring “Someone Like You” from his speakers when there’s a loud knock on his door. He pauses the music. “Seriously, if you’re the Jehovah’s Witnesses again, you’re wasting your time! I’m a bisexual lawyer and I love the Devil!” Technically, it’s true. It’s just the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen he loves.

The person outside clears their throat a little. It sounds like they’re holding back laughter. “You sure you don’t need Jesus in your life, Fog?”

Fuck, _fuck,_ fuck, it’s Matt.

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales slowly. Okay. He can do this.

He opens the door.

Matt’s sopping wet, and looks terribly tired and kind of sad. He smiles at Foggy, but Foggy can see the tension in the set of his shoulders.

“Well, come in, then,” Foggy mutters, and hustles him inside. “Stay right here,” he orders, and Matt placatingly holds up his hands.

Foggy strides over to the linen closet, grabs his fluffiest towel, and puts it in the dryer for a minute. When it’s done, he reaches in, takes a steeling breath, picks up the towel, and heads back out.

He dumps it on Matt’s head unceremoniously. “There,” he says. “Like a stray puppy.”

Matt half-smiles, and Foggy leads him to sit on the sofa. Yeah, the “world on fire” thing kind of negated the actual need to guide Matt around, but Matt is a sweetheart, and he’d reassured Foggy that he wanted him to do it and that at this point, it was way weirder for him not to.

“So-” Foggy starts, right as Matt says “Okay.”

Matt grabs his shoulders. “Please, Fog. I need to go first.” Foggy swallows and nods. Rejection time. Which should really be Simon Cowell’s catchphrase, why isn’t that a thing already? Fuck, he would rather face ten thousand Simon Cowells than have this damn conversation today, he’s not ready, he’s not ready, please just let him down easy-

“I talked to Father Lantom today,” Matt says, and Foggy’s heart starts sinking like a failed souffle. Oh boy. Is Matt gonna run the full Catholic gauntlet today and both tell him he can’t be with him because _sin_ , and also feel incredibly guilty about that and attempt to repent? Jesus, he can picture it much, much too clearly. “It gave me some clarity,” Matt continues, clearly wrestling with the words he wants to say next. _Here we go_ , thinks Foggy, resigned.

Matt breathes in. “Foggy, you have to understand,” and he sounds broken, Foggy would do anything, _anything_ , for Matt to not ever sound like that again, “I just thought I was doing the right thing for you.” Wait. What?

“I didn’t want to put you at even more risk than I already am. I hurt everyone around me. It’s what I do, what I’ve always done, and what I always will do. I became Daredevil to help people, but I’m just fucking everything up and I hate it.” Matt’s face is crumpling, and Foggy can’t breathe.

“But Father Lantom sat me down in a pew, took off his collar and told me he was giving me advice as a friend, not my priest, and said that me not saying anything was only hurting you and me both, and that being true to myself and what I loved and what I needed wasn’t a sin. He said I should tell you how I really felt, that I’d repressed everything too long and this self-flagellating wasn’t helping me, God, or anybody else.” He looks angelic in the faint golden rays of dusk coming through Foggy’s windows.

Foggy mentally sends his undying gratitude to Father Lantom. Father Lantom deserves a medal. Ten medals. Cheese danishes from Café Vienna. Mrs. Winkler’s pastries are the closest thing this world will ever get to manna from heaven.

“Foggy,” Matt says, and Foggy’s mind goes blank, because Matt is inching closer to him, so close, and placing a gentle, callused hand on his cheek. “I love you, too. I’ve been in love with you for so, so long.”

And then he kisses him.

Matt kisses with the sureness and deftness that Foggy had always imagined. His mouth tastes like peppermint, and he smells like detergent and coffee and rain and something leathery, darker, _Matt,_ and Foggy wants more, _needs_ more, and he melts into it, parting his mouth, and Matt surges back up heatedly against him. Matt’s stubble scrapes against him deliciously, and he tangles a hand in Matt’s hair and it’s hot and obscene and demanding, absolutely heavenly, and Foggy makes a completely involuntary breathy noise that makes Matt’s expression darken with lust. And now they’re full-on making out like teenagers on Foggy’s couch, with the slide of tongue and the heated press of Matt’s ridiculously red mouth on his, and Foggy never wants it to stop, the universe is melting away and it’s just him and Matt, with his sculpted muscles and fair skin and beautiful face and soft hair and kiss-swollen lips mouthing a line up Foggy’s neck and scraping against a point that has Foggy whimpering, and Matt sucks the tender skin and grazes it with his teeth and Foggy honest-to-god _moans_ , but then Matt is drawing away, flushed and panting and stunning, and Foggy can’t think about _anything_ that doesn’t involve dragging Matt to the bedroom right now, but he sits up all the same.

“I guess this is a good time to tell you, sober, that I love you too,” Foggy says, and they grin at each other like idiots, but they’re each other’s idiots, and they’re in love. Foggy wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It is,” Matt says, and his smile carries a hint of cockiness, “but I was actually going to ask if you wanted to continue this on an actual bed.”

“That would be good, yeah,” Foggy says breathlessly, and he can’t believe this is happening outside the realm of his occasional (okay, almost daily) late night fantasies.

“Lead the way,” Matt says, and kisses Foggy again, and they stumble down the hall.

\--

Foggy’s neighbors don’t sleep well at all that night, but the loaf of banana bread that shows up on their doormat the next morning in what is clearly an apologetic manner is consolation enough.

\--

They show up to work together the next morning, where Karen has baked them muffins with chocolate chips that spell out, albeit wonkily, “WE JUST HAD SEX”.

“I knew you’d work it out!” she says cheerily and hugs them both. “Treat each other right,” she says looking from each of them to the other. “Or I’ll fuck you up.” She holds up her fists in a mock-boxing stance.

“I fully believe you, Ms. Page,” Matt says, grinning, and he loops an arm around Foggy’s waist and kisses his hair.

Karen groans. “No. No! I’m going to start an office PDA jar. I’ll fine you a dollar for every instance. Maybe then I’ll actually get paid.”

“But how much for each instance?” Matt asks, mock-thoughtfully. “And wouldn’t the nature of the PDA vary and change the amount each time?”

As they bite into the muffins and debate the fine for a chaste kiss versus a disgusting nickname like Snookums, Foggy feels like he’s walking on air. He looks up at Matt, wondering how he got so lucky, and Matt turns his face down toward him too.

“Hi,” Matt says, smiling.

“Hey,” Foggy grins back.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Matt says. He smirks cheekily. “Even if I can’t see you all that well.”

Karen rolls her eyes, saying something, and chucks a piece of muffin at them, but her complaints have faded into the background. Foggy really only has eyes for Matt.

“You’re not so bad yourself, sweetheart,” he says teasingly.

Matt grins and kisses him.


End file.
